


Ask him

by Sherctorrunning23



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Prom, Sherlock - Freeform, johnlockfluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-06-08 06:17:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6842287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherctorrunning23/pseuds/Sherctorrunning23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wants to ask John to prom but doesn't know how, so enlists the help of his closest friends. A relatively short, fluffy, non-angsty fic with lots of Johnlock at the end</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Irene

‘You should just ask him.’ 

Sherlock opened one of his eyes and fixed a look of the utmost contempt on Irene, who was sitting crosslegged at his desk. ‘That is the stupidest idea you’ve ever had.’ 

Irene looked vaguely offended. ‘I don't think it’s the stupidest, Sherlock. Think about all the things I’ve done. Seriously. I slept with that substitute teacher-‘ 

‘I liked her,’ Sherlock muttered. ‘She had the most delectable perfume. She gave me a bottle to experiment on for Christmas last year.’ 

Irene rolled her eyes. ’I told Mr Phillips that his wife was cheating on him with Mr Anderson-‘ 

‘You didn't even give me credit for that.’ 

‘I started that rumour that you were the bastard son of Prince Marcus,’ Irene said, ignoring him completely. ‘And that boy tried to kidnap you for ransom-‘

‘He couldn't even hold the knife properly, I disabled him in a matter of seconds.’ 

‘What about that time-‘ 

‘Enough, Irene,’ Sherlock snapped. ‘We have bigger problems.’ He sighed and crossed his ankles, hands steepled by his chin. He had adopted his thinking position (lying on bed, ankles crossed, hands steepled) as soon as he had reached his room after school; when Irene had knocked on the door and charmed her way past Houghton, the Holmes’ butler, he had simply pointed at the chair and remained silent. Irene had guessed what was wrong (she almost always guessed right, she wasn't an idiot) and had come up with her (stupid, stupid) suggestion. 

‘I’ve made no progression,’ Sherlock moaned. ‘None. He barely likes me at the moment as it is.’ 

Irene raised an eyebrow. ‘What the hell did you do?’ 

‘You.’ Sherlock said bluntly and Irene looked slightly ashamed. ‘Oh.’ 

Sherlock and Irene had slept together two weeks previously. It had been a spur of the moment thing that hadn't meant anything to either; Sherlock had been upset because John had asked out the new brunette girl (abusive uncle, lives with grandparents, anxiety and depression) and Irene had been angry that one of her favourite regulars, Charlotte (17, bisexual, closeted, younger brother, freelance orgamist, divorced parents) had decided that she couldn't sleep with Irene anymore because she was ‘straight’. Sherlock had turned up at Irene’s door, they’d ended up drinking in her room and the next thing he knew Sherlock was no longer a virgin. 

Irene coughed. ‘I told you we shouldn't hide it-‘ 

Sherlock winced and opened his eyes. ‘I didn't think anyone would find out, Irene. We decided not to tell anyone.’ 

‘Jim doesn't count as anyone, Sher. I’m surprised you didn't tell him. You’ve got that creepy telepathic thing going on.’ 

‘I do wish you’d stop calling it the creepy telepathic thing,’ Sherlock mumbled into his hands. ‘You mentioned it to Alicia Cooper-‘

‘Oh, that one was naughty,’ Irene interrupted. ‘I never thought she’d have it in her.’ 

‘And Alicia,’ Sherlock continued, ‘told her youngest brother, Seamus, who’s in year seven, and now none of his year will touch me in case they get ‘weird gay creep disease’.’ 

Irene shrugged. ‘Well, it’s true. You’re both weird, gay, creepy-‘ 

‘And completely platonic,’ Sherlock interrupted. ‘We’ve always been platonic. From the moment we first touched, Irene, you know it.’ 

The moment they’d first touched had been something different, beautifully and complicatedly different. Sherlock couldn't explain it then, and he couldn't explain it now, six years later. An electric shock, an impulse, the desire to hold on tight and never let go because he had finally, finally found someone who understood him 100%, eternally and entirely. 

Most of the time Sherlock and James didn't communicate by sound. One could tell what the other was thinking without even looking at them; they were so tuned to the other that, until the beginning of the year, no-one outside their friendship group mentioned one without the other. Sherlock-and-Jim, Jim-and-Sherlock. 

People usually thought they were in a relationship and neither Jim or Sherlock ever corrected them because, in a way, they were in a relationship. They knew everything about each other, they were best friends and Jim was more than a little keen to kiss Sherlock, purely for experimental reasons. That wouldn't happen now, though, because Sherlock was desperately in love with John Watson and would do nothing to jeopardise that. His probability of ever becoming John Watson’s significant other was approximately 2.34% (though the probability of John kissing him was a higher 8.7%, with it increasing even higher to 11.1% when John was drunk) and Sherlock was doing everything in his power to accomplish this. 

He was even willing to attend the stupidest social occasion ever invented if it meant John would come with him. 

Jim hadn't seemed to mind; he had kept himself occupied with Sebby Moran, a national shooting champion with an IQ of about 90 and a height of about six foot five who had become almost devoted to Jim in the five years since he had started at their school. He was in the year below, so Sherlock rarely saw him and Jim together, but Irene had confirmed that Sebby was smitten and even Jim seemed more than impartial- 

Anyway. 

Irene told Jim, Jim told Sebby and by the time Sherlock got into school on Monday morning everyone knew. John had been oddly quiet about the whole thing, which had led to Sherlock suspecting that John wasn't as ‘not gay’ as he claimed, which had further led to Sherlock’s absolutely brilliant idea of asking John to the large social gathering involving dancing, secret drinking and everyone pretending to like each other held annually for the year 13’s at Sherwood Grammar School.

Apparently, most people called it ‘prom’. Sherlock preferred his title.

‘Just freaking ask him,’ Irene sighed, swinging her legs off his desk. ‘Now, are you going to sleep with me or not?’ 

Sherlock shook his head. ‘Not tonight. Thinking.’ 

Irene shrugged. ‘Suit yourself, darling. I’ll see you tomorrow. If I’m in.’ 

Sherlock smiled. ‘Don’t overdo it, Irene. We have exams coming up.’ 

‘Who needs exams when you’re going to be a dominatrix?’ Irene teased. ‘Revising is boring, Sherlock. Come over on Saturday. I can teach you a thing or two-‘

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and shook his head. ‘Irene, although you are of above average intelligence, I doubt you could teach me anything that I am required to know in my six A levels of Chemistry, Physics, Maths, Further Maths, English and History. The only A level that you take that I do not is psychology and the probability of me ever having to know anything about that is relatively low- you were talking about sleeping with me, weren't you.’ 

‘Yup.’ 

‘Oh.’ Sherlock thought for a moment. ‘Maybe. Depends.’ 

Irene stood up and grabbed her bag, heading for the door. ‘I promise you won’t fall in love with me, Sher.’ She ruffled his hair and left the room, yelling ‘see ya!’ before kicking the wall outside Sherlock’s room to annoy Mycroft.

‘I’ve already fallen in love,’ Sherlock said to his empty room. ‘There is no need to promise anything.’


	2. Jim

‘Body parts.’ 

They were in Chemistry and had been sitting in companionable silence for over forty minutes, mostly because Sherlock had a case and wanted desperately to finish it by the end of the hour long lesson. Jim had been doing god knows what to their test tube: they were meant to be making some sort of solution that Sherlock couldn't be bothered to read, but neither boy had cared enough to obey their teacher’s lesson plan and it wasn't like Mr Davids would come over and get angry with them. Sherlock was too brilliant to ever get in trouble in Chemistry and no one in the school dared cross James. He wasn't even eighteen and he already practically owned the school. 

Sherlock shook his head, unsure if he’d heard right. ‘What?’

Jim sighed and rolled his eyes with that look on his face that he usually only got when talking to idiots aka everyone on the planet but Sherlock. ‘Irene told me that you’re trying to think of a way to ask John to prom. I’m giving you an answer. Body parts, Sherlock.’ 

‘John hates the body parts,’ Sherlock said mournfully. ‘He freaks every time he comes to my house and finds a head in the fridge. I don't think he would come to this event with me if I gave him a body part. Maybe if I promised to stop acquiring body parts…’ 

Jim sighed. ‘No, Sherlock, you’re not getting it. It could be really romantic. Like, you could give him a head and say,’ he put on a girlishly high voice, ‘oh Johnny, my head says that I shouldn't like you because I’m an incredibly intelligent and unordinary human being and you’re a stupid little pet…’ 

Sherlock frowned; he hated it when Jim started bad-mouthing John because it meant that he had to either agree or defend John. His head told him that he should listen to Jim, his oldest friend and the person who understood him better than almost anyone in the world, but his heart told him that he had to defend John because he had managed to fall in love with him in the space of about six months which was pretty incredible, if he was honest. Sherlock loved six people (his mother, his father, Jim, Irene, John and Mycroft, though he would rather die than admit the last one) and it had taken him an incredibly long time to acquire feelings for five of the six. John was a completely different story; he had met him in the September of that year, had developed sexual feelings for him by the end of the month, begun to develop romantic feelings for him by mid October and realised that he would die for him by Christmas. 

John was an exception. A brilliant exception.

Jim didn't agree. 

‘You can do better, Sher.’ Jim was fiddling with a test tube mindlessly, pouring different chemicals into their tube without really looking at the labels. Sherlock kept one eye on the chemicals to make sure nothing would blow up; he was sure John wouldn't agree to go out with him if his face was melted. ‘You don't need an angel.’ 

‘I wish you would stop referring to them as angels,’ Sherlock sighed. ‘It makes you sound like some sort of devil.’ 

‘Who says I’m not?’ Jim smirked, and for a moment Sherlock saw that blank look in his dark eyes. Most people couldn't see any emotion in Jim’s eyes; some (brave) people described him as empty, emotionless, psychotic. These people were wrong. Jim felt and Jim felt keenly, strongly, much more vividly than most ordinary people, just like Sherlock, he just hid it very, very well. It was one of the things Sherlock truly admired about him, usually, but sometimes…

There was a blank look that came over Jim’s face. It was like he shut off the more human side of him, the side that enjoyed musicals and the BeeGees and swimming and anything involving the royal family and fully embraced the part that enjoyed guns and terrorism and the light fading out of the eyes of a dying child.

Sherlock didn't like it. 

Jim was talking again and Sherlock brought himself round. There would be time enough in the future to think about James Moriarty and his blank looks; for now, he had John and prom to worry about. 

‘…you’ve given him the head, you pull out a packet of ejaculate-‘ 

‘Ejaculate?’ Sherlock jolted backwards. ‘Why?’ 

Jim smiled evilly. ‘Don’t interrupt, I’m not finished. You pull out the ejaculate and you say (continuing on from the last sentence, of course) so will you come to prom with me?’ 

‘Oh god.’ 

‘Yes. It’s brilliant! And then you pull out a tongue and say ‘we can talk’,’ Jim mimed flapping a tongue around, ‘and then you pull out some teeth and say ‘we can eat’,’ Jim snapped imaginary teeth together in his left hand, ‘and finally you pull out a pair of feet and say ‘and we can dance’!’ Jim patted imaginary feet on their bench in time to a jazzy Charleston. ‘And then- and this is where it gets really good, so listen carefully- you pull out a heart and say, ‘there are many reasons why you might not want to go with me but I have one good reason why you should. It’s because my heart,’ Jim clasped his chest and made a bad-dum, bad-dum sound, ‘belongs entirely to you’. And then you put the heart in his hands.’ Jim pretended to give the fake heart to Sherlock. ’There’s no way he could refuse you, Sher.’ 

‘Maybe,’ Sherlock said doubtfully. Personally, he thought the idea of body parts was brilliant (actually, truly brilliant, he would be amazed if John ever did anything like that for him) but he saw John being less than delighted. In fact, he saw John vomiting at the sight of the tongue, gazing in horror at the teeth and fainting clean away when Sherlock tried to tap dance with a pair of severed feet. 

‘How did you ask Sebby?’ Sherlock asked, trying to change the subject. Jim laughed. ‘Ask Sebby?’ He snorted. ‘I didn't ask him so much as say ‘I’m wearing black to prom. Wear something that matches but doesn't look boring’.’ 

Sherlock sighed. ‘Why isn't it that simple for me?’ 

‘Don’t worry,’ Jim grinned, slapping Sherlock on the back. ‘My body parts idea is genius. And I have an even better idea for your first date-‘

Unfortunately (or fortunately, maybe?) Sherlock didn't get to hear about Jim’s idea for his and John’s first date because the potassium iodide Jim had added to their test tube caused a complete combustion of sodium and the test tube shattered, throwing flaming precipitate everywhere. In the resulting chaos Jim seemed to forget about Sherlock and his John problems due to the massive, gaping hole in his jacket sleeve (‘this is Westwood! Westwood!’). 

Jim didn't mention it again until the end of the lesson, when, as Sherlock packed up their equipment and his friend sullenly watched, jacket still smoking, he said, ‘or, you know, you could just ask him.’ 

Sherlock snorted. ‘That will never work. I don’t want to be refused, and the only way to avoid being refused is to make it as big and as grand as impressive as ever.’ 

‘Then definitely go with the body parts,’ Jim nodded. ‘You don't get much more impressive than a human heart and severed feet doing the Charleston. Or tap. Salsa might be a bit risqué, though. I mean, it is John, and he has even less sexual experience than you. Anyway, I have a meeting to get to.’ Jim smiled and ruffled Sherlock’s hair (why did people keep doing that?). ‘Definitely go with my idea. It’s fault-proof.’ 

After a long period of deliberation, Sherlock decided to put Jim’s idea in the maybe pile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Sheriarty but I want to limit it for this Johnlock fic...comment and leave kudos to get another chapter up as soon as possible :)


	3. Molly

‘Cookies.’ 

‘Cookies.’ Sherlock nibbled the end of his pen before sighing, closing his notebook. ‘Explain?’ 

‘Really?’ Molly looked overly delighted that Sherlock hadn't shot her down immediately and blushed. ‘Oh- well- um-‘ 

‘Spit it out,’ Sherlock groaned, running his hand through his hair. ‘I only have three months until prom and if I don't ask him soon someone else will.’ 

‘You don't know that,’ Molly tried to reassure him. ‘He might be saving himself for you-‘

Sherlock glared at her; was she trying to be a complete idiot? ‘Now why would he do that, Molly?’ Approximately eight girls and one boy in our year of 75 students find John Watson attractive and I predict that at least two of the girls are willing to ask him to the prom, if he doesn't ask them first. The probability-‘

‘You’re always banging on about probability,’ Molly muttered. ‘Not everything in life is about probability, Sherlock.’ 

‘That,’ Sherlock continued, ignoring her completely, ‘he will accept my offer to attend the large social gathering involving dancing, secret drinking and everyone pretending to like each other held annually for the year 13’s at Sherwood Grammar School with me is extremely low- there is no way he would ask me. He’s John, Molly! Everyone loves him-‘

‘How many people in our year find you attractive?’ 

Sherlock stared at her. ‘What has that got to do with anything-‘

‘Answer me, Sherlock,’ she said in that quiet, I’ll-kill-you-if-you-argue voice that she sometimes got when someone was being particularly not good. It didn't happen very often: Molly Hooper was the sweetest, gentlest, kindest girl Sherlock had ever met: but when she was angry…

Sherlock pushed Molly around, he knew that. He knew that she liked him and he took full advantage of that, manipulating her feelings to work to his advantage. He’d been doing that since he was eleven years old and had sat next to her in his first Physics lesson: Molly had taken pity on the small, curly-haired boy with the soulful eyes who was a year younger than almost everyone else. She had showed him around the school, eaten lunch with him, did the assignments for subjects he disliked (Design, Geography, Art) until it got to the point where people started calling Molly Sherlock’s ‘stupid snotty slave’ (ah, the crude evil of children). 

Sherlock had considered Molly as merely a means to not fail stupid, irrelevant subjects but in time he had grown to realise that she was so much more than that. She was courageous, kind and loyal, and Sherlock valued loyalty above almost any other character trait. 

That and Irene, who had been ‘secretly’ infatuated with Molly since she was thirteen, had demanded that if Sherlock fucked Molly around anymore he would have her to answer to.  
Sherlock had no intention of answering to Irene. 

Sherlock realised he had been quiet for far too long and quickly answered, trying to avoid Molly’s burning gaze, ‘seventeen girls and three boys.’ 

‘Has anyone asked you to prom?’ Molly asked. 

‘No,’ Sherlock scoffed. ‘Why would they? I’m me, everyone hates me.’

‘I don’t hate you,’ Molly replied. Sherlock smirked and raised an eyebrow. ‘Is this your way of asking me to prom?’ He would never go there (partially because he was mostly gay and partially because Irene would quite literally rip off his balls if he did) but it was funny watching her squirm. 

Molly went bright red and shook her head as quickly as possible. ‘God, no, I was just- I mean- you big bully, you did that on purpose.’ 

Sherlock feigned innocence, batting his eyelashes innocently. ‘Why would you think that? That was clearly what you hinted-‘

‘Shut up,’ Molly groaned, throwing a pencil at him. ‘Silence at the back!’ Mrs Grey, their English teacher, called. She loved Sherlock (and hated Molly, but that didn't really matter) so Sherlock was sure they wouldn't get in trouble and continued talking at the same level as he had been before. ‘Explain your idea, then, Molly. I’m getting desperate.’

Molly turned to him and smiled evilly (she had been spending far too much time with Jim). ‘Come to mine Friday,’ she whispered, ‘and you’ll see.’

And that’s how Sherlock ended up, 119 days before the large social gathering involving dancing, secret drinking and everyone pretending to like each other held annually for the year 13’s at Sherwood Grammar School, baking cookies in Molly’s kitchen, with flour in his hair and an apron which read ‘I don't do work on days that end in day’.

Molly’s ‘brilliant’ idea was simple; Sherlock would bake cookies which spelled out John, will you go to prom with me? Originally, Sherlock had planned to spell out John, will you come to the large social gathering involving dancing, secret drinking and everyone pretending to like each other held annually for the year 13’s at Sherwood Grammar School with me but Molly had said that would take far too long both to do and to bake, especially considering Sherlock was absolutely awful at turning the little lumps of dough into letters. 

He had been working on them for over an hour and was actually proud of what he had done. Molly had shaped the 'John', the 'will', the 'prom' and the 'with' while Sherlock had done all of the others.  
Molly was inspecting his letters now and Sherlock had already puffed himself up for the praise that he knew would follow. ‘So…what do you think?’

‘Your t’s look like l’s and your o’s look like d’s,’ Molly said harshly. ‘It’s barely legible.’ 

‘You lie,’ Sherlock scoffed. ‘John will easily be able to read these. I’ll give them to him at school tomorrow-‘

‘Today’s Friday.’ 

‘On Monday, and he’ll be delighted that I made the effort. And they’ll be beautiful. I mean, I made them.’

‘If you say so,’ Molly said doubtfully. ‘Put the heat on, Sherlock, and I’ll try and…salvage your t’s.’ 

Sherlock walked over to the oven and looked at it carefully. He hadn't ever used an oven before (Mrs Hudson, his housekeeper, cooked all his meals for him) and had absolutely no clue how to use one. 

‘Put it on 160C,’ Molly said. Sherlock wrinkled his nose; if he put it on a higher heat, surely it would cook faster? Stupid Molly, unaware of the laws of kinetic heat energy. He turned the dial up to 275C and smiled; Molly would thank him later; and put in Molly’s tray of letters before snatching his tray off Molly and putting it in as well. 

Molly’s younger brothers, Callum and Henry, offered to do the washing up for twenty quid; Sherlock gladly handed over the money and whisked Molly into the living room. They were doing a joint project for their A level English coursework and Sherlock knew Molly couldn't do it all on their own; if they did it as quickly as possible he wouldn't have to constantly pester Molly to get it done.

As he annotated his copy of Lolita, he asked innocently, ‘so what are your plans for the large social gathering involving dancing, secret drinking and everyone pretending to like each other held annually for the year 13’s at Sherwood Grammar School?’ 

Molly rolled her eyes slightly. ‘Me and Irene are going stag.’ 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re going stag? But there are plenty of suitable candidates who would happily escort you. Mike Stamford, for one. He’s attractive, has money and is considered ‘nice’ by most of our year-‘

‘I don’t want to go with Mike,’ Molly said quietly, typing away. 

Sherlock groaned and rubbed his eyes. ‘I know. You want to go with Irene.’ 

Molly’s hands stilled over the keypad. ‘What-‘

‘Oh, come now Molly. It’s plain as day.’ Sherlock stretched his arms and watched his friend carefully. ‘I’m right, aren't I?’

Molly cleared her throat and put down her laptop, standing up and avoiding Sherlock’s gaze. ‘Right. It’s been about twenty five minutes, hopefully the biscuits are done. Coming?’ 

As Sherlock trailed after her into the kitchen he debated prying; he even opened his mouth to say something, but before he could a tiny voice in the back of his mind whispered she doesn't want to talk about it. Be decent and silent. 

Hidden love, Sherlock had come to realise, was a very touchy subject for most people. Sherlock would readily admit his love for John to any of his closest friends and acquaintances- the people he trusted- because he didn't think they would tell John. Irene had never admitted that she loved Molly but never outright denied it, probably because it was so obvious most of their year could see it, but Molly…Molly was different. It was much harder to see just how strongly she felt towards Irene, because she was quiet and timid and plain, so different from extroverted, intelligent, stunning Irene. Molly had had a steady boyfriend (an IT nerd called Tim) for almost two years (she’d dumped him at the beginning of the year) and genuinely treated Irene just as she treated all her friends. But to Sherlock it was obvious that Molly had truly fallen for Irene in the way her eyes lit up when she saw her, in the way they were always touching, in the way Molly’s face dropped a little whenever she saw Irene with one of her regulars or with a love bite visible on her neck-

Sherlock was jolted out of his reverie by Molly tapping his shoulder and pointing at the oven. ‘Ahem. Sherlock. Open the oven and check on the biscuits. If they’re a light golden-brown, they’re done. I’ll get out a plate.

Sherlock nodded and opened the oven. 

‘OH MY GOD,’ Sherlock screeched as flames shot out of the oven and singed his eyebrows. ‘MOLLY! YOUR OVEN HAS MALFUNCTIONED! HORRIBLY HORRIBLY MALFUNCTIONED!”

Molly dropped the plate and pulled Sherlock away from the oven; the flames were growing, intense heat directed straight at them. ‘WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?’ She shouted, grabbing a tea towel and flapping them at the oven.

This encouraged the flames, which leapt a few more inches out of the oven. Molly dropped the tea towel. 

‘I DID NOTHING! I OPENED THE DOOR!’ Sherlock reached into the oven to try and grab the biscuits, save them from the flames, but only succeeded in burning his hand, all the way across the palm. ‘GODDAMMIT, MOLLY, WHAT SHOULD I DO?’ He turned around and Molly had gone; he looked around the kitchen and she was nowhere to be seen. ‘THIS IS NOT THE TIME FOR A TOILET BREAK!’ He screamed. ‘MOLLY!’ 

Molly ran into the room, carrying the hose, and Sherlock almost started crying. ‘THIS IS ALSO NOT THE TIME TO WATER THE COUNTLESS DYING PLANTS SCATTERED AROUND YOUR HOME-‘

Water spurted out of the hose into the oven. 

The flames sputtered and died. 

Sherlock smiled sheepishly at Molly, who was once again wearing her I’m-going-to-kill-you look. ‘I’m sorry for shouting,’ he said, ‘but I was concerned for our lives.’ 

‘Sherlock,’ Molly said quietly, ‘why did you turn up the heat?’ 

‘I thought they’d be done faster,’ he protested weakly. ‘I didn't realise they would do that.’ 

Molly didn't answer. The hose was still spitting water into her oven. 

Sherlock reached into the oven and took out the biscuits, which had crumbled into a dark brown sludge. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘They’re not exactly golden-brown, but I think I can make them work.’

Molly tipped her head to the side and smiled. ‘Sherlock Holmes,’ she said softly, ‘I am never baking with you again. Just ask him to go with prom with you, for god’s sake. It’s so much easier and…safer.’ 

Once he’d been to the hospital and had his left hand wrapped for burns, Sherlock went home and sadly crossed idea 3, cookies, off his list. He’d have to think of something else.

Or rather, get someone else to think of something else for him.


	4. Mike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we have Sherlock and John meeting for the first time! Remember to comment and leave kudos for faster updates :)

‘A poem.’ 

Sherlock groaned and put his head in his hands. ‘This is getting stupid, now. Can you really imagine me writing a poem, Michael?’ 

Mike Stamford shrugged and picked up the recently dissected heart, moving it into the ‘waste’ bin (it was merely a green, plastic tray which Sherlock dumped all his used body parts in before the hospital cleaners moved them at night) and checking Sherlock’s liver, which he’d added the hydrochloric acid to in the hope that it might dissolve it. ‘This acid is far too concentrated, Sherlock, it’ll dissolve the whole thing. All you’ll have left is a sludgy pile of protein.’ 

Sherlock cursed and glared at the liver. ‘It was mislabelled, then; it said it was diluted by a tenth. Your father is truly letting the labelling system slip.’ 

Mike sighed. ‘He can’t be arsed to label everything because he knows where and what everything is.’ 

‘Can’t you ask him to label it for my benefit?’ Sherlock asked absentmindedly, picking up a test tube and examining it. Mike slipped a pair of safety googles over his eyes and Sherlock nodded in thanks, though it was unnecessary; he predicted that the chance of the test tube exploding was a mere 14%. 

‘He thinks you’re trouble,’ Mike laughed. ‘He keeps saying you’re a bad influence on me.’ 

‘Oh, I think I am, Michael,’ Sherlock smirked. ‘But you love me. I know you do.’ 

Mike shoved the other boy good-naturedly and added sodium to the decomposing liver. He and Sherlock had been friends since they were in nappies (their fathers knew each other) and Sherlock honestly liked Mike, though he could see why Jim and Irene found their friendship so odd. The older boy was exactly what Sherlock seemed to hate; a large, nice, normal boy who, despite his aristocratic heritage spoke in a soft London accent and preferred to go by his mother’s surname of Stamford. But Sherlock found him refreshing and far more intelligent than most people thought he was, and Mike liked Sherlock’s straight-to-the-point nature and intolerance to pretending to be nice. The two worked well together. 

That, and it had been Mike Stamford who introduced Sherlock to John Watson. 

*

They’d been in the form room right at the beginning of the year. Sherlock was sitting at the back with Irene, Jim and Mary and Mike had been chatting with the new boy who’s name Sherlock hadn't bothered to learn. 

Sherlock had needed to text Lestrade about the case that he was working and his phone was out of charge. Jim didn't have his with him, Irene’s was with Molly and Mary guarded hers like a gold mine so Sherlock had stood up and shouted, ‘Stamford! Give me your phone!’ 

Mike had chucked the phone at him and Sherlock had caught it easily (PE was the only thing that Sherlock was outright better than Mycroft at. Whilst Mycroft struggled to run for half an hour on the treadmill Sherlock was naturally incredibly fit, with excellent hand-eye coordination and the grace of a dancer) before typing out the text and walking back over to Mike to hand over the phone. As he gave the phone back, he caught the new boy’s eye. 

And Sherlock became interested. 

He pulled out the chair next to Mike and smiled at the new boy, who had amazingly twinkling eyes. ‘I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,’ he said smoothly. ‘Sherlock Holmes.’ 

‘John Watson,’ the new boy said. It was a plain, normal, simple name that seemed to fit him perfectly and Sherlock’s smile widened. ‘It must be odd moving to a new school halfway through your A levels. It’s a shame about your father but at least you’re happier with him behind bars.’ 

John’s eyebrows shot up. Mike rolled his eyes. 

‘I see you know Michael from rugby, though you haven't played for a while due to your shoulder injury…’ Sherlock squinted at the new boy and cocked his head to the side. ‘Did you enjoy Mauritius? Probably not as much as you should have done, considering it was a cadets training camp. I doubt the army will take you now, not after the damage you did to your shoulder. I would focus on getting optimum grades in your A-levels of History, Biology, Chemistry and PE, though try not to overdo it on the PE. Your brother will contact you shortly, I’m sure, though I doubt he’ll be sober when he does. Have a good year.’ Sherlock stood up and turned back to his friends; Jim was killing himself laughing and even Mary was trying hard to hide a smile. They loved it when Sherlock deduced someone, the look on their surprised, ignorant faces as he embarrassed them and learnt all their secrets- 

‘That was amazing.’ 

Sherlock whipped back around. ‘Excuse me?’ 

The boy, John, was staring at him in wide-eyed astonishment. ‘That was epic, mate, how did you do that? How did- did Mike tell you about me?’ 

‘Not a word,’ Mike smiled, leaning back in his chair. John turned back to Sherlock. ‘So how?’ 

Sherlock paused. Usually people were even angrier when he explained his deductions; they slapped him (Seb Wilkes) or spat at him (Sally Donovan) and once even kissed him (Victor Trevor) and for some inexplainable reason Sherlock did not want John Watson to spit at or slap him- 

‘Go on, Sher,’ Jim drawled from the corner. ‘Explain yourself to the idiot.’ 

Sherlock hardened his heart. 

‘You’re sitting straight and tense, although you’re around someone you know and there a relatively few people around you. You’re used to having to react quickly and to behave impeccably, even in environments where you should consider yourself safe, such as school or at home. Abusive father. You’ve had to move away at the beginning of your last year of secondary school which is odd itself- clearly something large happened and your mother decided to take you away for a fresh start. If she was hiding from your father she would have moved further away, I can tell you’re from London because of your accent, so he must be in prison and your mother believes you will still be safe in London. You’re holding your left shoulder as if it hurts and I can see the outline of a bandage and I deducted that you play rugby from your muscular build, particularly big shoulders, and calloused hands; the balls are often rough and scratchy. The way you hold yourself also suggests cadets and you’re wearing dog tags- I’m assuming they belonged to an Uncle considering your relationship with your father. You want to join the army in his memory, or maybe to make him proud if he’s still alive. I deducted you did PE from your build and also from the army dream. You mentioned you wanted to be a doctor to Mike about twenty minutes ago; you must be doing biology and, considering your physical background, chemistry is more likely than physics. You also have the words paper 2: WWI on the back of your hand; history. Your phone has an engraving on it,’ Sherlock pointed at the phone, which was loose in John’s hand, ‘which reads Sorry, Johnny- Harry x. He calls you Johnny, a nickname; a family member. The phone is a newer model, though it’s been used, which indicates it came from someone only a few years older than you at most; a brother. Now, why would he be sorry? He didn't move away with you. Why didn't he move away with you? He ran away. Why did he run away? Alcohol.’

‘How could you possibly-‘

‘Scratches around the charger, he plugged it in several times whilst drunk. That was a bit of a guess, if I’m honest. Good one, though.’ 

John looked shell-shocked and Sherlock prepared himself to be spat at or slapped.

‘Brilliant,’ John whispered. ‘That was brilliant.’ 

And Sherlock looked into his eyes, the eyes of this random boy who he’d never even met before, and realised that he felt happier than he had felt in years. 

He grinned and sat down next to John. ‘I’m glad you think so.’ 

*

Mike was scrawling on a piece of paper. ‘If you write him a sonnet, that’s a love poem, he’ll think that you’re a genius.’ 

Sherlock groaned. ‘He already thinks I'm a genius, Michael, and Sonnets are like thirteen-‘

‘Fourteen,’ Mike muttered.

‘Fourteen lines long,’ Sherlock corrected himself. ‘I so cannot be arsed, Mike.’ 

Mike sighed and crossed something out on his piece of paper. ‘Ok…what about-‘

‘I have a solution!’ Sherlock cried. He grabbed the paper, seized the pencil and wrote down his brilliant brainwave. 

Mike read it out loud. ‘People are idiots, you sometimes are too, but thankfully, those moments are few. The idiots invented this thing called the Prom, and if you refuse what I say next I’ll be glum.’ Mike winced and pinched the skin between his eyes. ‘Come to this laughable excursion with me, and we’ll be as happy as maggots in faeces.’ 

Sherlock beamed proudly. ‘What do you think?’ 

‘Since when did ‘me’ rhyme with ‘faeces’?’ Mike said. Sherlock huffed and snatched the piece of paper of his friend. ‘It’s a half-rhyme, Michael, and I think it’s brilliant.’  Mike closed his eyes, sighed, and then opened his eyes and put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. ‘Sherlock,’ he said slowly, ‘what I say now I say as your friend. Do not write John a poem. Seriously. Just don’t. It’ll end- I can’t even tell you how it will end, mate, but if someone gave me that,’ he gestured harshly at the piece of paper, ‘I’d probably file a restraining order. Just ask him, Sherlock, please.’

And with that he tore Sherlock’s piece of paper out of his hand, ripped it until it was snowflake-sized, and left the room, leaving Sherlock right back at square one and surrounded by shreds of paper.


	5. Mycroft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave kudos and comment for faster updates :)

‘Dinner at the ritz. Candle, violin and a bottle of Domaine de la Romane-Conti Grand Cru. All paid for by me. What do you say?’ 

‘That sounds awful,’ Sherlock said, not looking up from his chemistry. ‘I refuse. What are we talking about?’

Mycroft sighed and tapped his fingers gently against his desk (Sherlock thought with venom that he must not want to harm the 14th century oak). Sherlock _hated_ it when Mycroft looked at him like he was looking at him right now: as if Sherlock was a stupid, accident-prone baby who couldn't understand the world around him and had to be covered in bubble-wrap to prevent certain death. 

Stupid Mycroft. 

‘We’re talking about your futile attempts to seduce John Watson,’ Mycroft said smoothly. ‘I thought I would offer some brilliant advice.’ 

Sherlock groaned and threw back his head. ‘You’ve been having me followed again.’ 

Mycroft looked slightly uncomfortable. ‘Well-‘ 

‘No,’ Sherlock said, turning around and pointing his pen accusingly at his brother. ‘You have, don't deny it. I’m telling Mummy-‘

‘Don’t!’ Mycroft almost shouted, standing up. His ridiculously expensive chair flew backwards, whacking into the equally as expensive cabinet, and an even pricier vase fell off, crashing onto the floor in a million expensive pieces. Mycroft sighed and settled himself firmly in his seat. ‘Now look what you’ve done, brother mine. That was a gift from the emperor of Bhutan when Princess Madeline was born.’

Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘And they gave it to you.’ 

Mycroft smiled smugly and leaned back in his chair ( _God, he was annoying)._ ‘Well, once Princess Lydia were born there was no need for this vase.’ 

Sherlock smirked. ‘Of course not. Once there were younger, better siblings, everything the older child had was instantly worthless. Isn’t that so, Mycroft?’ 

‘Touché,’ Mycroft said, looking displeased because that seemed to be the fat git's default expression. ‘But I won’t let you into my office if you continue to break priceless artefacts. It isn't very respectful.’ 

‘Oh,’ Sherlock mimicked, ‘look at me. I’m Mycroft Holmes aka Supreme Overlord of the United Kingdom. I start wars and prevent assassinations and keep the economy from taking a nosedive but no one knows that I go home and eat cake in the shed because my boyfriend doesn't like me cheating on my diet and spend my christmas’ trying to stop my Mummy from putting potatoes on my laptop.’ 

‘You’re so childish,’ Mycroft snapped. ‘Anthea, please tidy away this vase. It’s quite disturbing the zen of the room.’ The moment the words were out of his mouth he looked horrified: Sherlock was almost pissing himself laughing. ‘The _zen?_ The _zen?_ Since when did you care about the _zen?_ ’ 

‘Gregory’s very into Buddhism at the moment,’ Mycroft said, looking ashamed. ‘He was working a case with a buddhist couple-‘

‘Solved it in about ten minutes,’ Sherlock bragged. ‘It was the owner of the green-grocers.’ 

‘And he developed a fascination. I try to avoid it, I really do, but when he puts on tapes when we’re trying to sleep…I was awake with the twins last night and it was on and some of it must have subconsciously sunk in.’ 

‘Is Lestrade at your house now?’ Sherlock asked brightly. His chemistry was annoying him and he was definitely in the mood to solve a murder. ‘I have some theories for an absolutely delicious shooting that happened last Friday and am eager to have someone to talk to them about with.’ 

‘No, he’s not, and you know that.’ Mycroft straightened a picture on his desk and Sherlock instantly tapped it back. ‘Anyway, Mummy specifically told me that I have to keep you here until ten o’clock on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays, otherwise you go home and, I quote, _Skype your little experiment until midnight_. She worries that you’re not working enough.’ 

Sherlock sighed. His mother’s stupid rule that he had to stay at Mycroft’s office in the Diogenes club whenever she wasn't home in the evenings was completely irrational. ‘I could pass these exams with my eyes closed, Myc. You know that.’

‘I know, little brother.’ Mycroft smiled and for a moment, Sherlock saw the boy who played pirates with him for hours on end, who lifted him up so he could climb the big oak tree at the bottom of the garden, who made him a fort and sat inside and read him stories. Then the facade came back up and Boring-Mycroft was back. ‘And if you could struggle onto the last syllable, Sherlock. Ezra called me _Myc_ last week and it was very disconcerting.’ 

Sherlock grinned, delighted. ‘Did he? That brilliant child.’ 

‘You’re a bad influence,’ Mycroft said as if it wasn't the most obvious statement in the entire world. ‘I don't know why we let you see them.’ 

‘Because they love me and I’m an excellent babysitter.’ Sherlock smirked. ‘And I…I would be most displeased if I couldn't see them.’ 

If there was one thing that Sherlock and Mycroft agreed on, it was that Mycroft’s twins were the best children in the whole world. Mycroft was only twenty-five and Lestrade, his boyfriend/partner, was a year younger but they’d been together for years and when a ‘government’ friend of Mycroft’s had mentioned there was a trial involving the creation of infants from same-sex couples they had signed up straight away. 

Obviously no one had expected them to get accepted into the trial so quickly, or for their surrogate to fall pregnant so effectively, but on Mycroft’s twenty-fourth birthday their twin boys, Christopher Zachary and Ezra Sherlock Lestrade-Holmes had been born, Christopher with light brown hair and big blue/green eyes and Ezra with a mop of black curls and dark eyes, just like Lestrade’s. 

Sherlock had taken to them surprisingly quickly. He loved both his nephews, even if they were half Mycroft, but he had a particular favourite in Ezra. Perhaps because he was named after him, perhaps because he looked more like him, perhaps because he was incredibly intelligent, but Sherlock and Ezra had been as thick as thieves from the day Sherlock had visited them in hospital and Ezra had grabbed his finger and gurgled intelligently, gazing up at him with those big eyes. 

‘True,’ Mycroft conceded, ‘but watch yourself. I’m not having my sons around someone who mocks me in front of them.’ 

‘You might not but Lestrade will,’ Sherlock said confidently. ‘Every time I turn up at your house Lestrade almost begs me to stay. He says that taking the twins to the Yard by himself is near impossible and-‘

Mycroft held up a hand. ‘Stop there, brother mine. I have no urge to hear about my partner _begging_ you for anything. Now, back to the matter at hand, Sherlock, which is how you shall ask John Watson to your prom.’ 

Sherlock sighed and looked at the ground. ‘I’m thinking I just might not ask him, Myc. I see no way in which he would agree to come with me and I prefer not to be massively humiliated in front of people.’

‘Sherlock,’ Mycroft began, looking uncomfortable, ‘I see no way in which he would not agree to come with you. From what I can tell John Watson values you above anyone else in his life. True, I cannot see if he finds you sexually appealing-‘

‘Thanks for scarring me for life there, Myc.’ 

‘But he loves you. Whether it is platonically or romantically is the question.’ Mycroft looked quickly at Sherlock and Sherlock felt himself grow even hotter. ‘You must decide whether you are going to take a risk, or if you are going to leave it and never know what might have been.’ 

Sherlock laughed uncomfortably. ‘Why are you even saying this?’ He teased. ‘You’re not meant to be telling me to ask people out. You’re my over-protective older brother. You have random men follow me to school every day-‘

‘I believe that John Watson is good for you.’ Mycroft said simply. ‘And I think that if you were to engage in a relationship with him, it would work.’ 

Sherlock coughed awkwardly and stood. ‘Well. It’s odd that you’ve clearly thought a great deal about this and it’s creeping me out a tiny bit so I’m going to go now. Thank you for offering to pay for an unnecessarily expensive meal at the Ritz, but I’m going to have to decline your offer due to it just being so, so wrong that my brother is trying to get me laid-‘

Mycroft rolled his eyes and stood up. ‘Fine. If you won’t take my advice, Sherlock, then I think you should listen to what almost all of your friends have told you and just _ask him.’_

Sherlock shouldered his school bag and smirked at Mycroft. ‘That’s even stupider than your plan, brother mine. I think I’ll keep looking for _sensible_ suggestions.’ 

And with that he turned on his heel and stalked out of his brother’s office.


	6. Lestrade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave kudos and comment for faster updates :)

‘Leave a note in his locker.’ 

Sherlock looked up from the corpse and sighed. ‘Why the hell are _you_ giving me advice on this, Lestrade? It’s actually a bit weird, to be honest. My brother’s _boyfriend-‘_

‘You know Mycroft doesn't like boyfriend, he prefers partner,’ Lestrade corrected as he waved one of the random DC’s that followed him around over. 

‘ _P_ _artner,_ then,’ Sherlock said, flushing slightly pink at being corrected in front of all the detectives. ‘I dislike it when you give me advice. Please don’t.’

‘Well, My told me you were asking all your friends what you should do to ask John to the prom, and I thought I would share my ideas.’ Lestrade smiled eagerly. ‘Come on, it’s a great idea. My keeps saying that you’re too wimpy to ask him and by writing a note you have no songs-and-dances, nothing humiliating and if he says no you can pretend it’s not from you.’ 

‘I’d have to sign it, Lestrade, of course he would know it was from me.’ Sherlock snapped. Lestrade chuckled and shook his head. ‘Nah, that’s the beauty of it. If he says no, then you can just say you never wrote anything and someone was just taking the mic.’ 

Sherlock straightened up and surveyed his would-be brother-in-law with narrowed eyes. ‘Lestrade, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but that might actually be the best idea I’ve heard yet.’

Lestrade physically brightened. ‘Really?’ 

‘Surprisingly, I’m not being sarcastic.’ Sherlock rubbed his chin, thinking thoughtfully. ‘What’s the date today?’ 

‘Thirteenth,’ Lestrade supplied, adding when Sherlock raised an eyebrow, ‘of May. Don’t you have exams starting in three days?’ 

‘Probably,’ Sherlock dismissed. ‘I’ll do exceptionally whether I know when they are or not.’

Anderson, who was walking past holding a severed hand, sniffed and said quietly, ‘even if you do say so yourself.’ 

Lestrade groaned and rubbed his eyes. ‘Anderson, not _now._ ’ 

‘I don’t mind, Lestrade, honestly.’ Sherlock crouched back down and surveyed the body. ‘I don't care what people that much stupider than me think of my intelligence. Jealousy, I assume-‘

‘Now listen here,’ Anderson roared, dropping his severed hand. ‘I am perfectly intelligent in a completely _non-freaky_ way, Sherlock, which in my opinion is a lot better because at least I can have normal, human relationships and at least people generally _like_ me. Even if you do work up the courage to ask your little _side-kick-‘_

 _‘_ John,’ Sherlock said quietly as he whipped out his magnifying glass and took a closer look at the victim’s neck, ‘is not my side-kick.’ 

‘There is no way,’ Anderson continued, breathing heavily as a vein throbbed in his forehead, ‘that he would say yes because you’re a fucked-up little _psychopath.’_

Sherlock stood up. ‘Maybe so,’ he said, perfectly composed, ‘but I am not going to listen to relationship advice from you, Philip. Unsuccessfully keeping your infidelity from your wife for three years has finally led to her seeking solace somewhere else; personally, I thought it would happen much faster. The baby is his, which you would know if you had paid even the _slightest_ attention to her date of conception. She’s planning on leaving you and taking everything. You’ll be a pauper, Philip, which will be especially bad once you speak to Sally.’ Sherlock nodded at the DS, who looked outraged in the corner. ‘Congratulations are in order, Philip, though how you’ll be able to pay for your _little bundle of joy_ is another question. Now, Lestrade, show me the other body.’ 

Anderson looked shell-shocked; the other detectives looked a mixture of envious, scared and angry; Sally looked like she was going to throw up. Sherlock smiled slightly to himself as he followed Lestrade across the street to where the other body was lying under a blanket, covered completely. 

Lestrade didn't say anything as Sherlock peeled back the blanket, though Sherlock could sense that he was displeased with his words to Anderson. ‘Ok, Lestrade, tell me off,’ he said. ‘I probably deserve it, etcetera etcetera.’ 

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair. ‘I know he deserves it, Sherlock, but that was a little bit far. I knew Sally was expecting and I knew that he was the father but she deserved to tell him, or not tell him, in her own time. You didn't just humiliate Anderson there but Sally as well-‘

‘Irrelevant to me, Sally is equally as rude. In fact, as her IQ actually does exceed that of a slug, she is worse.’    

‘Still, Sherlock.’ Lestrade bent down next to him and looked at the body, frowning slightly as he took it in. ‘That was…not good.’ 

‘Don’t say that, John says that.’ Sherlock peeled back the body’s jumper, revealing the single bullet wound over the heart. ‘Ah. I see.’ He moved to the end of the corpse and removed one of the shoes and then the sock, examining the sole of the corpse’s feet. 

‘Where is John?’ Lestrade said, and Sherlock was grateful that he had dropped the whole Anderson issue. ‘He said something about revision. If you are indeed correct, and our exams start in three days, I assume he is revising for those. I invited him here but…’ Sherlock trailed off and rubbed his gloved hand over the foot. ‘Hmm.’             

‘If you’d been thinking, you could have invited him to the prom at a crime scene. He’d have loved that,’ Lestrade said. Sherlock shook his head. ‘Crime scenes are _my_ thing, Lestrade. Not John’s. James supplied me with a similar idea concerning body parts but we determined that it was probably a little risqué for him.’ 

‘I think the note would really work.’ Lestrade carefully covered the body’s face again and resumed his crouch next to Sherlock. ‘What would you write, though?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ Sherlock murmured, engrossed in the body. ‘I haven't thought about it in the ten minutes since you told me your idea.’ 

‘Ok, well, what I think is that you use normal blank paper-‘

‘As opposed to rainbow coloured paper covered in sparkles?’ 

‘And a normal black pen-‘

‘So not a glitter pen with sprinkles?’ 

‘And just write _Dear John-‘_

‘Dear God, Lestrade, have you ever seen that film? It’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever seen. John would probably start crying if I started it with _that-_ ‘

‘Alright, alright, you can say _John, I would like to ask you to go to prom with me. Sherlock x.’_

‘I have never done kisses in my life and I am not willing to start now. Much too Molly.’

‘Oh. Hmm. What about a smiley face-‘ 

‘Too Mike.’ 

‘A winky face?’

‘Too Irene.’ 

‘Your initials?’ 

‘Too James.’ 

‘Just an S?’ 

‘Too Mycroft.’ 

‘Well I don't fucking now then, do I?’ Sherlock looked up, shocked at Lestrade’s curse. ‘ _Lestrade._ You have _children.’_

Lestrade took a deep breath and looked at the corpse. ‘So what do we have here, before I end up _killing_ you.’ 

‘It’s simple. Charlotte Collins, this victim here, has been poisoned over a long period of time with the drug Daradocien, which slowly causes all the cells in the body to mutate. There are no physical symptoms and the mutations lie dormant until they are triggered by a rapid temperature change. This woman has recently been in a tanning bed, which we can see from the lines around her cuffs,’ Sherlock traced said lines, ‘and this clearly caused the mutations to activate. She would have died in moments as her heart failed. She got in the tanning bed voluntarily but that man, Scott Beadle-‘ Sherlock nodded at the other body, ‘was the one who took her out. Do a DNA test to make sure but he had splashes of fake tan on his sleeves but was not tanned on his skin. I would say that a gang planned this murder and killed the man they used to do their dirty work so it would be harder to track him. Guessing by the method of murder I would say it was the Red Barrons, a gang that operates in Western London and owns a chain of tanning salons. Their leader, one Aaron Mckenna is a known philanderer and I would hazard a guess that Charlotte here was impregnated by him and then murdered when he was told. If not, she owed him money and he got tired of waiting. I’m almost sure it’s the first one, though, her handbag does not contain any menstrual products which is highly unusual for a woman of her age.’ Sherlock stood up, smiled at the shocked Lestrade, and turned on his heel. ‘It’s a lot less fun doing this when John’s not here,’ he mused as he wandered towards the end of the street. 

'I miss John,' Lestrade said as he followed Sherlock. 'He keeps you in check.' 

'I need nobody to keep me in check, Lestrade,' Sherlock said, offended. 'I am perfectly able to function alone.' 

‘You know, Sherlock,’ Lestrade panted, struggling to keep up with the taller boy. ‘Maybe everyone else is right. Maybe you should just ask him. He’s probably most likely to say yes, John’s that sort of bloke-‘

‘Another stupid idea, Lestrade,’ Sherlock replied, not turning around. ‘Just what I expected from you.’ The note idea, however, had been quite good, and Sherlock made a mental note to add it to his list when he got home. He was fast running out of time and it seemed like the best option out of a bad lot. 

 


	7. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM REALLY LOOKING FORWARD TO THE NEXT CHAPTER (cough Johnlock cough) but for now please leave comments and kudos on this one :)

‘Ok, Sherlock.’ Sherlock looked at himself in the mirror he had hung over his desk (it was useful in experiments involving light) and breathed out slowly. ‘You’ve run out of time and you need to make a decision. What are you going to do?’ 

Sherlock hadn't felt this nervous about a decision for years, if ever. He’d been planning it for so long that he hadn't really noticed that he was running out of time until James had turned to him in Chemistry and said, ‘so what did you decide?’ 

Sherlock’s friends had become oddly involved in his decision to ask John out to the prom. They’d taken bets on how he would ask him, whether John would say yes and even whether they would snog during the first dance (Sherlock seriously, seriously hoped so). But all of that would become irrelevant, as Jim had reminded him, if Sherlock _didn't actually ask him._

Sherlock had looked blankly at Jim after his question, cocking his head to one side. ‘I haven't decided yet,’ he murmured as he gently traced his precipitate. ‘I have time.’ 

‘Not really, Sher.’ Jim had laughed. ‘You’ve got, what, five days?’  

Sherlock had been so shocked that he dropped his petri dish. ‘No, no, no, _no,_ Jim, I have months…months!’

Jim, looking slightly amused, had whipped out his planner and waved it in front of Sherlock’s nose. ‘No, Sher, you’ve got four days. Look. Prom is on Friday 1st of July and today is Monday 27th…have you seriously not asked him?’ 

‘I would have told you!’ Sherlock frantically ran his hand through his hair, looking around the classroom in a frenzy. ‘I need to go home and choose a way to ask him, Jim! Why did no one tell me I was running out of time!’ 

‘I assumed you were just hiding it for a big reveal!’ Jim looked almost as upset as Sherlock felt. ‘Sherlock, I’ve got fifty quid on him saying yes! And I do not want to owe Irene that amount of money, she gets so grabby and demands such weird favours…’ 

‘Sebastian dislikes it when you sleep with her,’ Sherlock said mindlessly as he stood up and threw his textbooks in his bag. The teacher was saying something but Sherlock didn't care; they weren't really even meant to _be_ in school since their A levels had finished, most people were just coming in to get extra info on the Uni courses they were doing (this meant that Sherlock had spent most of the last three weeks sitting in the Chemistry classroom with Jim and three other students learning about the absolutely _fascinating_ carbon buckyballs and other degree-level information) and his chemistry teacher couldn't stop him anyway. 

He had left the classroom as Jim shouted, ‘I’ve also got twenty on you asking me via body parts so make me proud, darling!’ 

Sherlock had run home, sprinted up the stairs and locked his bedroom door. He had cleared all the experiments off his desk, picked out his notebook and a black pen and sat down at his desk, ready to choose how he would ask John to this stupid gathering.  

There were seven options on his list: 

_Just ask_

_Body parts_

_Cookies_

_Poem_

_Dinner at the Ritz_

_Note_

_Don’t ask_

There was no way in hell Sherlock was going to ask him, he needed to do something big and brilliant so John would actually agree. He had a feeling John would dislike the body parts and the poem was apparently so shit it made Mike Stamford feel physically sick, so that was out as well. The cookies was too much of a hazard to redo (Sherlock wanted to be _alive_ when he went to the prom) and it was far too late to do dinner at the Ritz. That left the note and don't ask, but the note seemed wrong and now Sherlock was thinking about it maybe he should just stay quiet and go stag. John probably already had a secret date, they were going to separate Unis in September and Sherlock didn't generally like being rejected-

The phone rang. 

Still gazing intently at his piece of paper, Sherlock swiped right and said, ‘yes?’ 

‘Oh, hey Sherlock. I didn't know if you’d pick up.’ It was John, Sherlock realised absentmindedly, but he didn't want to talk to him at the moment, he had a job to do. ‘Oh, John. Greetings.’ 

‘Can you talk?’ John asked, and he sounded oddly nervous and Sherlock was surprised that that didn't annoy him; in fact, it was almost endearing-

A voice in his head that sounded vaguely like Mycroft whispered _soppy child. Sentiment is a chemical defect._

Sherlock rolled his eyes and ignored the voice. ‘Yes, of course. Always for you.’ Then, realising that he sounded like a love-sick fool, continued, ‘as long as there’s not a murder to solve.’ 

John laughed and the sound warmed Sherlock’s heart. He’d often thought about all the things he’d do to make John Watson laugh; almost, if not, everything. Anything, everything, whatever it took. ‘Is there a murder to solve at the moment, Sher?’ 

‘No. You’re in luck. What can I do for you?’ Sherlock crossed off _poem_ and wondered what else he could definitely cross off. 

‘You weren't in school after five,’ John was saying. ‘I wondered where you were.’ 

‘Something came up,’ Sherlock answered vaguely as he crossed off _dinner at the Ritz._ ‘Nothing major, do not fear.’ 

‘Ah. Good.’ John still sounded nervous and Sherlock wondered if he should ask him what was going on before thinking better of it; he was far too busy. ‘Anything else?’ 

‘We’re good friends, aren't we, Sherlock?’ 

Sherlock frowned and crossed off _cookies._ ‘Yes, John, you know that. I consider you my very best friend.’ 

‘Really?’ John sounded so surprised that Sherlock could almost believe it was genuine. ‘Even more than Jim?’ 

‘James is my oldest friend,’ Sherlock said, crossing off _body parts._ Sorry, Jim. ‘It’s different.’ 

‘Were you and him ever a thing?’ John asked, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, even though John couldn't even see him. ‘No, John. Never. I think…maybe if you hadn’t-‘ he stopped himself just in time and coughed. ‘No. I don't feel that way towards James Moriarty.’ 

‘And Irene? I know you slept with her, Sher.’

‘I slept with her, no feelings were involved. She’s infatuated with Molly.’ Sherlock crossed off _just ask_ and wished that John would get off the phone, he had stuff to do. 

‘Yeah, I know, I was just making sure. So…you’re completely unattached.’ 

‘John, if I had a significant other, then you’d be the first person to know. I’m single, completely unattached.’ Sherlock sighed; what the hell was John getting at? Was this a twisted way of him telling Sherlock that he had a date to the prom? That he was going out with that Mary girl? He hoped not, it would probably kill him. He looked at his final two options and thought hard about the pros and cons of each one. The note was simple and effective but the more he thought about it, the less he wanted to ask. He really, really didn't want to get shot down like he was now sure he was going to be. 

John was still talking, he realised, and he interrupted whatever the other boy was saying with a, ‘what, sorry, I zoned.’ 

‘What?’ John sounded shocked. ‘You weren't listening? Are you fucking, Sher?’ 

‘Why, what did you say?’ Sherlock was definitely leaning towards _don't ask_ now. ‘Go on, you have my full attention.’ 

‘D’you want to go to prom with me?’ 

Sherlock dropped his phone. It hit the edge of his desk and fell onto his carpet, coming to a rest by his chair leg, and he could hear John saying, ‘Sherlock? Sher, did I lose you?’ 

Sherlock picked up the phone. ‘Hello, John, I’m here,’ he said as calmly as he could. ‘Can you repeat your previous statement, please?’ 

‘Um, ok. I just thought as you were single and I was single and it’s the end of the year and I like you that maybe you’d like to go to prom? With me? You don't have to, I won’t mind. I get your whole ‘married to my work’ thing, so-‘

‘Shut up, John, I’ll come with you. Pick me up at five, I’ll see you then.’

He could almost hear John’s smile as he said, ‘sounds good. Wear something black, it accentuates your cheekbones,’ and he hung up.

The moment he heard the tone Sherlock stared into his mirror, and even though he was a little pissed off that he hadn't gotten a chance to ask John ( _though would he have asked?)_ he had a grin on his face that seemed to stretch across his entire face.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and smiled at the ceiling. ‘I love John Watson,’ he whispered, and he couldn't actually believe that John, his John, had actually just _asked him out._ Was he dreaming? He couldn't be dreaming, it had sounded real, completely real, and he had been clean for three hundred and forty one days so he wasn't high and he was going to the _prom_ with _John Watson,_ and Sherlock knew if he was going to die right then he would feel accomplished because he had never, ever been happier than he was right in this moment. 

He picked up his phone and dialled Irene’s number. As soon as she picked up, he said giddily, ‘Irene. I need something to wear for Prom and it needs to be black. According to my date, it accentuates my cheekbones.’ 


	8. Prom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've really looked forward to writing this chapter and I hope you enjoy it as much as I do! :)

Mycroft refused to let John pick up Sherlock to take him to the Prom.

‘But I thought you liked John!’ Sherlock had whined, glaring at his brother. ‘Remember? The Ritz? ‘I believe that John Watson is good for you’? Mycroft, please!’ 

Mycroft had crossed his arms and glared right back. ‘No. I shall take you there and John can drop you back, if he wishes.’

‘My,’ Lestrade had said quietly from behind him, jogging Ezra gently on his hip, ‘what exactly do you think they’re going to be doing during the ten minute drive to Sherwood?’

‘How can you ask that question?’ Mycroft cried, turning around and staring contemptuously at his partner. ‘What did we do during the drive to our Prom, Gregory?’ 

Lestrade hesitated then turned back to Sherlock. ‘Fair enough. Sher, maybe you should just let My take you.’ 

‘Thanks for the mental image,’ Sherlock spat, ‘but you and Lestrade had been engaged in a relationship for almost a year. John and I have never kissed, we are not in a relationship, this is probably classed as our first date. Also, I’m _me-‘_

‘That, dear brother, is no longer a valid argument,’ Mycroft hissed. ‘ _Irene Adler._ ’ 

Sherlock stared at Mycroft in horror. ‘Have you been spying again?’ He shouted. ‘I’m telling Mummy. MUMMY!’ 

Mrs Holmes bustled into the sitting room, smiled at Lestrade, chucked Ezra under his chin, bent down and smoothed down Christopher’s hair, and fixed her eyes on her two sons. ‘Yes, Sherlock?’

‘Mummy, Mycroft is spying on me again-‘

‘It’s a good thing I am, Mummy, he’s fornicating with girls and planning romantic liaisons with boys-‘ 

‘IT’S AN INVASION OF PRIVACY-‘

‘IT KEEPS YOU SAFE-‘

‘I DON’T NEED YOU TO KEEP ME SAFE I AM 100% CAPABLE-‘

‘DON’T MAKE ME LAUGH, SHERLOCK, YOU HAVE ABOUT AS MUCH COMMON SENSE AS CHRISTOPHER HERE-‘

‘Boys,’ Mrs Holmes said, smiling sweetly, ‘if you’re going to fight, I’ll be very unhappy.’ 

Both of them stopped immediately, Sherlock looking grumpy and Mycroft looking sullen. ‘Sorry, Mummy,’ they parroted in unison. 

‘Now apologise to each other,’ she said quietly. 

‘Sorry, brother mine,’ Mycroft said stiffly. Sherlock raised his chin and smirked. ‘Sorry, fatty.’ 

‘Now, Mycroft, if you’re going to spy on Sherlock you have to be more subtle,’ Mrs Holmes said, ‘and Sherlock, if you’re going to have one night stands with Irene Adler then you should tell her not to put it on twitter. And tag you.’

‘Fine,’ Mycroft hissed. ‘Fine. But I’m telling you, Sherlock, I will drive you to that dance and there is _nothing_ you can do about it.’ And with that he turned on his heel and stormed out of the door. Lestrade sighed, nodded at Sherlock, smiled at Mrs Holmes, picked up his other son and followed his partner out the door. 

And that was how Sherlock ended up in the back of Mycroft’s limo on the biggest night of his life, sitting opposite his brother, glaring sullenly out of the window. 

‘I see you made an effort.’ Mycroft broke the silence, staring at his brother in interest. ‘New cologne, new suit, even combed your hair.’ 

Sherlock was wearing what the Americans commonly referred to as a tuxedo. Irene had picked it out for him, selecting a plain black suit with a white shirt and a blue bow-tie, to ‘bring out his eyes’. He didn't even feel that uncomfortable, which was nice, though he did wonder if he would be slightly over-dressed.  

‘Sherlock,’ Mycroft said when his brother didn't reply, ‘I’m sorry if you’re angry with me.’ 

‘You should have let me go with John, Mycroft, you know that.’ Sherlock replied in a tight, clipped voice. ‘There was no reason for you to forbid me-‘

‘I just wanted to spend some time with you before you grew up properly, brother.’ 

Sherlock whipped his head around and narrowed his eyes. ‘Excuse me?’ 

Mycroft sighed. ‘Look, Sherlock, I know that you’re exceedingly intelligent with a genius level IQ and you’ve been incredibly independent since you were six years old but you’re still my little brother and…it’s strange. Watching you grow. You’re going to University in September, you’ve got a job as a…’

‘Consulting detective,’ Sherlock supplied. 

‘Yes. Quite. And now, you are in the early stages of a relationship, but when I look at you I still see that little boy with the wild curly hair who used to beg me to play pirates with him, and I know that when you leave, Sherlock, your loss will break my heart.’ Mycroft stopped, an expression of utter shock on his face; clearly he hadn't meant to say as much as he did.

‘What the hell am I meant to say to that?’ Sherlock groaned, hiding his face in his hands. Mycroft shrugged awkwardly and smiled. ‘I know we don’t often discuss feelings such as this, Sherlock, but you must agree with me. Especially since Sherrinford…left.’ 

Sherlock sighed, squared his shoulders and looked his brother directly in the eye. ‘I concur.’ 

‘You…concur?’ 

‘To everything you just said. I agree. I reciprocate your feelings of brotherly affection.’ Sherlock pulled at his bow-tie awkwardly and Mycroft smiled at him. Not sarcastically, not patronisingly, but genuinely, and it warmed Sherlock’s heart.   
The limo stopped and Sherlock immediately stood up. ‘Thank God that’s over,’ he said. ‘Now, let us never speak of this again.’ 

‘Agreed,’ Mycroft laughed. Sherlock smiled at his brother, his self-proclaimed worst enemy, hesitated, and held out his hand. ‘Thank you, Mycroft.’ 

Mycroft took his hand and shook it once. ‘A pleasure, brother mine. Now go. John Watson will be waiting.’ 

Sherlock grinned and stepped out of the limo, putting all thoughts of Mycroft behind him. He was feeling nervous, certainly, and apprehensive, but mostly excited. He was at the Prom and in there John Watson would be waiting for him. 

_John._

Sherlock stepped through the doors, went up the stairs, and entered the hall. 

It was packed full of year thirteens and their dance partners. Some were dancing, some were eating, some were chatting at the side and some were subtly making out in the corner. There were a few teachers on the stage, but they seemed relaxed and were ignoring the snogging ones; Sherlock suspected that they no longer cared and also that they had had some of the alcohol-laced  punch. 

Sherlock saw Jim leaning against one of the gym mats and walked over to him. Sebby Moran saw him first and stiffened (Sebby had a real problem with Sherlock, viewing him as a potential rival for Jim’s affections) but Sherlock ignored him, punching Jim lightly on the arm. 

‘Sherlock, darling,’ Jim drawled. ‘You’re late.’ 

‘I was busy,’ Sherlock grinned. ‘I have more important things to do than a children's _dance._ What have I missed?’ 

‘Dean Winchester disappeared with Castiel Novak approximately twenty minutes ago,’ Jim said. ‘They went in the direction of the PE cupboards and I’m guessing Dean’s banging Cas in there.’

‘To be expected,’ Sherlock nodded. ‘Those two have been after each other for years. Anyone else?’ 

‘Twelve finally worked up the balls to say…something to Clara. Look.’ Jim nodded in the direction of the snogging corner and Sherlock picked out Twelve Smith’s familiar velvet jacket and Clara’s short blue skirt. ‘Ah. Unexpected. I thought he would never say anything. Have…have you seen John?’ 

‘Johnny? Yes, Johnny was with Mike. He’s been here for ages, Sher.’ Jim stood up and offered his hand to Sebby nonchalantly. ‘Care to dance, Sebby?’ 

Sebby grinned and nodded and Sherlock smiled to himself. Jim may have made it seem like his feelings for Sebby were barely existent but deep down he clearly cared very deeply for the boy, and Sherlock was happy. Jim needed someone to stop him going full on psycho and Sherlock would not always be around to stop him. 

Sherlock made his way onto the dance floor, glancing at the dancing couples. Amy Pond and Rory Williams were slow-dancing in the corner and Eleven Smith, Twelve’s twin brother, was doing some sort of waving dance with his girlfriend River, who was cracking up in the corner. Sherlock moved through the crowd, looking left and right for John when-

‘Sherlock!’ Irene grabbed his hand and smiled, and Sherlock’s eyes widened at her dress. ‘Jesus Christ, Irene, you look _stunning._ ’ 

‘I have a talent for making myself look good, I know,’ Irene grinned, ‘and I couldn't wear my _battle dress_ , as you well know.’ 

‘Indeed.’ Sherlock nodded at Molly, who was standing next to Irene, and said innocently, ‘so how’s _going stag_ doing?’ 

‘Um.’ Molly looked sideways at Irene and blushed deeply. ‘Um-‘ 

Suddenly, a hand seized Irene’s shoulder and pulled her towards them; Sherlock frowned when he saw Charlotte Bennet, Irene’s once-favourite client. ‘Irene,’ Charlotte whispered, ‘I need to tell you something.’ 

Irene glanced at Molly and then back at Charlotte. ‘I’m a little busy-‘

‘Irene,’ Charlotte purred, ‘I came out to my parents.’

‘That’s good!’ Irene smiled, patting Charlotte on the shoulder. ‘But-‘

‘You can have me again, Irene,’ Charlotte whispered. Molly, standing next to Sherlock, had clenched her fists. ‘What do you say-‘ 

Molly Hooper wrenched Irene Adler’s arm, pulled her until they were facing each other, and kissed her. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Charlotte looked horrified. Eleven, who was dancing nearby, squeaked. Dean Winchester, who had just walked through the door looking suspiciously rumpled with Cas, said loudly, ‘has our entire year gone hella gay?’ 

Molly suddenly ripped herself away from Irene and looked around; everyone in the hall was staring at her. ‘Oh my God, Irene, I’m so sorry-’

‘No talking,’ Irene said, still looking shocked. ‘Kissing.’ And this time she pulled Molly towards her, everyone cheered, and Jim caught Sherlock’s eye and mouthed _about time, no?_

But Sherlock didn't reply because that was the moment when he saw John. 

He was with some other people, obviously; Mike Stamford, James Sholto and Sebastian Wilkes, but Sherlock didn't see them. All he saw was John.

John, who had gelled his hair back so Sherlock could see the browner roots. John, who was wearing a black suit and a dark green bow-tie which brought out the little green flecks that Sherlock knew were hidden in his eyes. John, who laid eyes on Sherlock and smiled as if he’d seen the end of the world, and it had been beautiful. 

Sherlock was next to John in under three seconds.

‘I was beginning to think you wouldn't turn up,’ John breathed, and Sherlock’s heart ached with love. ‘I had to get ready,’ he whispered. ‘It took a surprisingly long time.’ 

‘You clean up well,’ John joked, and he pulled one of the wayward curls slightly until it sprang back, curling close to Sherlock’s head. ‘Who’d have thought it?’ 

‘Well,’ Sherlock said primly, tossing his head back. ‘I am considered the most _attractive_ Holmes child. Though there’s not much contest.’ 

John threw his head back and laughed and Sherlock couldn't help smiling because it was him who had made John laugh like that, _him_ and only _him._ They lapsed into silence, Sherlock drinking in the sight of John right then because even if it didn't work, even if this was the furthest they got, at this precise moment everything was new and beautiful and John was _his._

‘You know, Sherlock,’ John said quietly, and Sherlock couldn't remember the last time John had called him Sherlock. Usually it was _Sher,_ or _Shezza,_ or even _Lockie_ once or twice, but now it seemed as if Sherlock was back and why the sound of John addressing him by his full name was so appealing Sherlock had no idea but oh, he didn't care, because he _liked_ it-

‘It’s your turn to tell me how brilliant I look compared to usual.’ John looked up at him hopefully but Sherlock frowned. ‘But John, you look no different. You’re just the same as always; resplendent.’ 

John’s face contorted and for a moment Sherlock thought he’d done something horribly wrong and panicked; he reached out a hand to touch John, already forming an apology in his head, but John shook his head and just smiled at the floor. ‘You’re impossible,’ he murmured, and then he caught Sherlock’s hand and pulled it. ‘And now you’re going to dance with me.’

Sherlock loved to dance. Ballet, ballroom, tap, he could do them all to a very high standard but as John pulled him onto the dance floor…

Sherlock forgot it all. 

The song was something Sherlock didn't know but it was obviously a slow song because River pulled Eleven closer to her and hooked her arms around his neck and the breakdancers moved off the floor respectfully. As John reached up and connected his hands behind Sherlock’s neck, Sherlock caught the eye of Mrs Hudson, his Physics teacher, who winked and turned off the lights-

‘Oh my God,’ someone said, and Sherlock looked up as the rest of his year stared at the ceiling.

Someone (who, Sherlock had no idea) had pasted tiny little glow-in-the-dark stars across the ceiling. The sun had gone down just a few minutes previously and they were the only thing lighting up the room; Sherlock could hardly see John’s face, let alone anyone else’s. 

He put his hands on John’s waist because that was all he could think of doing in that moment, and he couldn't believe that John was actually in his arms right then, properly, completely. He’d dreamed about it, of course he had, but now John was actually here and he knew that he would never, ever be able to let him go. 

‘The song’s called you’re beautiful, by James Blunt. I like it,’ John whispered, as if he knew that Sherlock had been wondering, and he wondered what he had done to deserve John Watson. ‘The lyrics are sad. The melody is sad. Why do you like it?’ 

‘It’s bittersweet.’ 

‘It’s incorrect.’ 

John looked up at him and Sherlock could have sworn he was smirking. ‘How so?’ 

‘It keeps repeating _I will never be with you._ That’s a lie.’ Sherlock blushed furiously and avoided eye contact. ‘John, I need to ask you something-‘

‘Yes.’ 

Now it was Sherlock’s time to smirk. ‘I haven't said anything.’ 

‘Whatever you were going to say, Sherlock, the answer is yes. Always yes.’ John looked up again and smiled at him, his eyes lighting up in the glow of the tiny stars, and in that moment, Sherlock felt immortal. 

‘John Watson, I believe that I am in love with you,’ he whispered, and John stood up on his tiptoes, and they were so close that Sherlock could feel John’s breath on his neck, and he said, ‘And I, Sherlock Holmes, _know_ that I am in love with you.’ 

And then their lips touched, and Sherlock’s heart exploded into a million tiny, glowing stars. 


	9. End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends Ask Him! If you could leave kudos and comment on how you found the entire work I would greatly appreciate it :) if anyone has any questions on this work or prompts for my next one please comment! Thank you to everyone who commented and read from the beginning and if you liked it, I have other (mostly Johnlock) fics on AO3 :)

‘Dad, it’s actually gone dark now, and I _hate_ cleaning.’ Violet stamped her foot and glared at her twin sister, who was calmly polishing her father’s skull. ’I don’t,’ Tavvy grinned. ‘Daddy, doesn't Billy look smart?’ 

Sherlock, who was lying on the floor with his son balanced on top of his stomach, nodded approvingly. ‘I have never seen a cranium sparkle so substantially, Octavia. You have once again exceeded expectations.’ 

‘DADDY!’ Violet shouted. ‘You’re just doing that to try and make me clean.’ 

‘John left us with one instruction, Violet,’ Sherlock replied calmly, ‘and that was to clean the sitting room. Does the sitting room look clean?’ 

All three of his children looked around the room, before declaring as one, ‘no.’ 

‘Exactly. Ergo, we must clean. Violet, clear my desk, but don't look in any of my case files, John dislikes it.’ Violet rolled her eyes and went over to the desk, stacking the files untidily. ‘Half of this mess is Ant, anyway.’ She directed her well-known evil glare at her little brother, who just giggled and fell off Sherlock’s stomach. ‘It’s actually really sexist to make the girls do the cleaning, Daddy,’ Tavvy said as she moved onto the mantelpiece. ‘You and Ant are just sitting there and me and Vi have to clean-‘ 

‘Sherlock, are you being sexist?’ Sherlock leapt up and smiled at his husband, who was standing in the door with a half smile on his face. ‘Poor girls. What are we going to do about your Daddy’s horrible behaviour, Vi, Tavvy?’ 

Vi and Tavvy exchanged a quick glance before turning around and smirking evilly at their father, who took a step backwards. ‘No, no, no, I wasn't being sexist- OH GOD NO!’ 

His daughters flung themselves at him, tackling him to the ground. Dante, held firmly in Sherlock’s grasp, squealed delightedly as he toppled to the floor, landing on his father’s stomach as his sisters tickled Sherlock on the floor. ‘Please- no- Dante-‘

John plucked his son out of Sherlock’s arms and laughed when Dante shouted, ‘Pa! Pa! Da, look, Pa!’ 

‘Your- Papa- is- EVIL!’ Sherlock gasped between giggles. ‘Please, girls, please stop, oh my god this is horrible.’ 

‘Not until you admit that girls are better than boys!’ Tavvy said, sitting on Sherlock’s ankles and tickling his knees. 

Sherlock’s knees were particularly ticklish. 

‘OF COURSE THEY’RE BETTER! I WOULD HAVE SAID THAT ANYWAY! PLEASE STOP!’ 

‘Maybe we should let Daddy go, girls,’ John said pityingly. ‘He looks like he’s about to have a heart attack.’ 

‘He’s thirty five,’ Tavvy said, pushing her glasses up her nose. ‘He won’t have a heart attack.’ 

‘Oh, I think he might,’ Sherlock gasped as he pulled himself into sitting position. ‘When I’ve recovered I’m going to take you down, Violet Louise.’ 

Violet and Octavia exchanged quick grins before Violet said, ‘can we go tidy our room?’

John sighed before nodding. ‘But actually tidy, Vi. Don’t just sit on your laptop and play World of Warcraft.’ 

Violet looked mutinous but nodded. ‘Fine. But if Dantavlet is murdered by orcs I’m 100% blaming you.’ 

As John watched his daughters leave the room, he said quietly to Sherlock, ‘you should never have bought her that game. It’s wholly inappropriate, Sher. Sometimes I think you forget she’s only ten.’ 

Sherlock shrugged. ‘She’s highly intelligent and she loves it. It’s also a hell of a lot better than her _serial killer_ phase.’ 

John shuddered at the memory. ‘I thought we said we’d never talk about that again, Sherlock.’ 

Sherlock smiled evilly. ’I do love breaking your rules,’ he said huskily. ‘Maybe I should do it more often.’ 

John smirked and put his arms around Sherlock’s neck. ‘Try it, and see where it gets you,’ he whispered, and Sherlock leaned forwards-

A sudden crash made them break apart and Sherlock stared at his son, who was trying to look innocent in John’s arms. ‘I din’t do anything,’ he said innocently, batting his big blue/green eyes at John. ‘The picture falled by itself.’ 

‘Dante James Watson-Holmes,’ Sherlock groaned as he picked up the picture of Irene and Violet; the glass was cracked across the screen. It had been taken two summers previously, when Irene, Benedict and Grace had come with John, Sherlock and their kids to Portugal for two weeks following Irene and Molly’s separation. Irene hadn't mentioned it once and had seemed her usual self; in fact, she still refused to mention it. No one was totally sure why they’d broken up, thought Sherlock had his suspicions. 

‘Irene will flip if she finds out,’ John laughed. ‘Ant, we’re not meant to break pictures, are we?’ 

Dante shook his head solemnly, black curls falling into his eyes. ‘Sorry, Pa.’ 

‘I forget to mention,’ Sherlock said as he put the picture back on the mantlepiece and sank into his armchair, ‘Tilda came round with something for you from Mycroft.’ 

‘What was it?’ John asked, wiping a smudge of dirt from his son’s face. Sherlock shrugged. ‘She refused to give it to me, she said it was for you. That child is fiercely independent.’ Mycroft and Lestrade’s youngest, Matilda, had recently turned sixteen and without her two older brothers to keep her in check, she had gone slightly out of control. 

‘She reminds me of Ezra,’ John nodded. ‘He went a bit nuts when he was her age, didn't he?’ 

Sherlock pursued his lips. Ezra’s ‘problems’ in that time had been kept secret from everyone except Sherlock in that time, and he knew he couldn't betray his brother’s confidence like that, so he just nodded. ‘Yes, though not as bad.’ 

Sherlock must have looked sad because John came up behind him and wrapped his arms around him. ‘Hey, Sher, it’s ok. What’s up?’ 

Sherlock just smiled and looked up at his husband, at his blonde hair with just a hint of grey, and his bright blue eyes, and the wrinkles which Sherlock just thought made him more perfect. ‘Nothing, as long as you’re here,’ he said quietly, and John kissed him, and even after eighteen years, Sherlock felt that same feeling, the feeling of a million stars exploding in his chest-

‘Daddy, I found a box.’ 

‘I swear to God, Octavia Molly, if anything short of _murder_ has occured-‘ Sherlock said through gritted teeth, and John laughed. ‘To be continued,’ he whispered to Sherlock, before turning to his younger daughter. ‘What did you find, Tavvy?’ 

‘A box,’ Tavvy repeated, looking annoyed. ‘Well, actually, Vi said we should look in the top of the wardrobe so I built a ladder of boxes and toys, and then I climbed up and found this.’ She held out the simple brown box and frowned. ‘I’ve never seen it before. Can I open it?’ 

Sherlock leaned forward and studied the box, before picking it up and sniffing it. ‘No chemicals. Probably not an experiment. When I first moved in here I put a load of junk in the spare bedroom. It must have been something we missed when we cleared it out before you were born.’ 

Violet, who had appeared in the doorway, looked interested. ‘So it’s safe to open?’ 

‘Go for it,’ Sherlock waved dismissively. ‘If it’s dangerous, we’ll evacuate. If it explodes-‘

‘Stop, drop, roll,’ Dante interrupted, and John looked disturbed as he put his son on the floor next to the girls. ‘He’s sixteen months old, Sherlock, and he knows what to do in the event of a fire. I _said_ that incident where you blew up the kitchen traumatised him.’ 

Sherlock didn't reply, too busy watching his daughters open the box. Seeing their heads together, one brown, one blonde, he felt an unusual sense of pride. His twin girls had always been very different; Violet was blonde, with Sherlock’s eyes and mind, and was taller, slimmer and a lot more extroverted than her sister, whilst Tavvy was smaller, with brown hair and John’s eyes. She was very intelligent, that was clear, though compared to Violet people often forgot her, and Sherlock could see a lot of himself in her, when he was that age. Despite their differences, though, the two girls were best friends and utterly dependant on each other: John often said that they were a more obviously affectionate version of Sherlock and Mycroft. 

Violet pulled out a folded piece of paper as Tavvy pulled out a CD. 

Sherlock frowned, still unsure of what they were. ‘Open it,’ he said curiously. ‘What does the paper say?’ 

‘It’s a list,’ Violet frowned. ‘Look. It has seven bullet points, and it’s in Daddy’s handwriting.’ 

Sherlock took the list and his mouth dropped open.

_Just ask_

_Body parts_

_Cookies_

_Poem_

_Dinner at the Ritz_

_Note_

_Don’t ask_

‘It’s that list that I did to see how I would ask you to Prom!’ Sherlock said excitedly, showing John the list. John looked at Sherlock in disbelief. ‘You were going to ask me to _Prom?’_

‘Of course,’ Sherlock said. ‘You just beat me to it. Did I never tell you that?’ 

John laughed incredulously. ‘Sher, I had no idea.’ 

Sherlock frowned. ‘That’s very odd. I’d been planning on asking you for months, my friends all had a bet on it-‘ 

‘That was why Jim kept showing me pictures of brains and saying how cool they looked! And why Irene came up to me the night after Prom crying because she’d lost fifty quid! How did I not know this?’ 

Violet, who had heard the story of John asking Sherlock out one too many times, rolled her eyes and looked at the CD. ‘Then what’s on the CD?’ 

Sherlock shook his head, still staring at John in amazement. ‘I don't know, darling, why don't you go and find the CD player and we can see? John, how did you not know that I would ask you?’ 

‘I didn't know you had feelings for me until you kissed me, Sherlock,’ John replied. ‘Even when you said you’d come with me as my date, I thought it was just a joke. I’d always thought you’d had a thing for Jim-‘

‘Uncle Jim?’ Tavvy said in disgust. ‘ _Ew.’_

‘WHY DID EVERYONE THINK I HAD A THING FOR JIM?’ Sherlock cried. ‘We were best friends! Nothing more!’ 

‘Irene, then-‘

‘Auntie Irene?’ Tavvy looked even more put out. ‘But she likes girls!’ 

Sherlock pointed at his daughter. ‘Exactly, John.’ 

‘I never thought it would be me!’ John looked quite agitated now. ‘You were brilliant, and beautiful, and smart, and your friends were _so_ intimidating-‘

‘That’s ridiculous, they’re just big teddy bears, really-‘

‘IRENE IS A DOMINATRIX-‘

‘Now she has full custody of Benedict she rarely does that, you know-‘ 

 AND JIM IS THE MOST SUCCESSFUL CRIMINAL MASTERMIND IN THE WORLD-‘

‘Shh, John, we can’t have the neighbours knowing-‘ 

John slumped in his chair, staring at Sherlock. ‘I just- I just couldn't believe that you liked me,’ he murmured. ‘Still can’t, really. I’m John. Ordinary John. Simple John. Run-of-the-mill John.’ 

Sherlock stared at his husband, completely overwhelmed. Part of him was angry that John would think that way about himself, part of him was worried about why John would say this, part of him was in disbelief over how John had described him, but absolutely every atom in him was screaming about how much he loved John in that moment. More than during that first dance, more than at their wedding, more than at the birth of their twin daughters, more than at the birth of their miracle baby boy. 

More than ever. 

And suddenly, out of nowhere, _you’re beautiful_ by James Blunt started playing. 

‘This was the song on the CD,’ Violet shouted over the intro. ‘It’s quite pretty, isn't it?’ 

Neither of her fathers replied. Sherlock was lost, lost in a memory from eighteen years ago, with two boys, one with black hair and one with blonde, dancing in the glow of tiny stars. The start of a story, the start of a journey, the start of Sherlock’s _life._

The beginning of everything, and it had started with this song. 

Sherlock didn't notice he was crying until Dante touched his eye and said worriedly, ‘Da?’ 

‘I haven't heard this song for eighteen years,’ John said, voice cracking. ‘ _Eighteen years,_ Sherlock.’ 

‘I know,’ Sherlock whispered. ‘I know, John.’ 

And then they were both standing up, crossing their living room in three steps, and Sherlock put his hands on John’s cheeks and he whispered, ‘don’t ever think that you’re not good enough for me, John, because you _are._ A million times over. It’s me-‘

‘Shut up,’ John growled, and then he kissed Sherlock, and Sherlock could honestly have sworn that they were back in that hall, at the beginning of everything, with James Blunt playing in the background and the darkness hiding them from the blinding light of life.

They broke away when Violet said loudly, ‘well, that wasn't at all awkward.’ 

Sherlock laughed and pulled away from his husband, looking at his three children. ‘Be more appreciative,’ Sherlock scolded. ‘If it hadn't been for this song, then you three wouldn't exist.’ 

‘ _EW!’_ Violet and Tavvy chorused. Dante just blinked and held up his arms for his Daddy, and Sherlock swung him into his arms and kissed his curly head. ‘Da sad?’ He whispered, pulling at Sherlock’s own curls, so similar to his own. Sherlock shook his head and smiled at John, and in that smile he said _thank you_ a million times. _Thank you_ for being with him, _thank you_ for giving him a family, _thank you_ for being _John._

 _Thank you_ for loving him. 

‘Not sad, Dante,’ Sherlock whispered. ‘Happy. So, so, happy.’ 

That night, as Sherlock, John, Violet, Octavia and Dante lay in the big double bed and John read the hobbit, Sherlock looked at his family and he felt breathtakingly overwhelmed with everything. His entire life, everything that had happened in the last thirty-five years, everyone who had ever mattered to him, flashing before his eyes. His mother, his father, Mycroft, Jim, Irene, Molly, Mike, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Violet, Octavia, Dante. 

_John._

Always John. Whatever happened, John was the most important thing in his life (bar his children, of course) and Sherlock was so, so grateful that he had been given him. 

He wondered what would have happened if he had taken the advice of his friends, all those years ago, and just asked John to the Prom. In all likelihood nothing would change, Sherlock supposed, though he doubted he would still have that perfect memory. 

That perfect memory of the two boys, surrounded by the stars, floating in the dark, as their story began. 


End file.
